


The Only Question

by gayshitiguess



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, First Person, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Murder, Mystery, Period Piece, classic case fix, gay detectives, please don’t immediately skip I promise its not THAT kind of first person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:12:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26160172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayshitiguess/pseuds/gayshitiguess
Summary: “ There are, throughout my collection, a number of stories that I cannot and will not include in publication in the Strand. These records of events are blacklisted and kept in a false bottom of a trunk, buried deep in my office for a number of reasons. Holmes frequently asked that I omit cases where he failed to reach his desired end, which I obliged to an extent. I kept tucked away those personal stories of Holmes’ life, allowing the man a level of privacy to the public that hungered so desperately for details. Never was I to mention his parents, and his brother only when absolutely necessary. These two reasons account for a third of the records I keep only for the eyes of Holmes and myself. The other two thirds reveal too much about our sordid affair. “In the streets of Whitechaple, a young man lays dead, a green carnation cast across his chest. When famed detective Sherlock Holmes and his companion Dr. John Watson investigate the murder, they must school their own emotions in order to bring justice to the man responsible. However, given the nature of the crime, it may create rifts inside of them that will only be healed in time.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 12
Kudos: 43





	1. Chapter One

There are, throughout my collection, a number of stories that I cannot and will not include in publication in the Strand. These records of events are blacklisted and kept in a false bottom of a trunk, buried deep in my office for a number of reasons. Holmes frequently asked that I omit cases where he failed to reach his desired end, which I obliged to an extent. I kept tucked away those personal stories of Holmes’ life, allowing the man a level of privacy to the public that hungered so desperately for details. Never was I to mention his parents, and his brother only when absolutely necessary. These two reasons account for a third of the records I keep only for the eyes of Holmes and myself. The other two thirds reveal too much about our sordid affair. 

Many had speculated on Holmes, a man who never took a wife, who had lived with men before me, who was often called delicate, effeminate, and sickly. These all were kind words for their suspicions. Other terms were too harsh for polite conversation. If he had been caught in any action before we became acquainted, I am sure that Mycroft could have the charges waived, considering his great governmental influence. 

Upon my move to Baker Street, the rumors moved in strange ways. Some considered my stay and the admiration that I expressed for Holmes and his abilities as an admission of guilt. Others took into account my own build, my military history, and my upstanding reputation. These factors that marked me to the public as far more of a man than my companion banished the possibility of my queerness. 

Had I been accused before meeting Holmes, there wouldn’t be much evidence to cite. Some strangeness between myself and an infantryman during my army days, but that secret died with him. I had, all my life, fancied the fairer sex. My history of courtship was completely female until I met Holmes. He instilled many strange things into me, my Sherlock. He changed me in ways that I had not thought possible. 

Baker Street was, perhaps, the most suitable place for our affair. The windows were small, and because of Holmes’ hatred of sunlight and fresh air, often closed and drawn. The walls were thick with wood and one could hardly hear from one room to the other. Mrs. Hudson, upon looking back, must have known, bless her. We thought we were quite conspiratorial, sneaking from rooms in the dead of the night, but the glint to her eyes as she observed us over breakfast was far too knowing. Mrs. Hudson, as anyone should know upon reading any of my work, was a goddess among women. Had I not been madly in love with Holmes, I might have fallen for her out of fondness alone. 

All of this to say that this is a story that will never leave the false bottom of my trunk except when Holmes and I wish to read over it with the others in the dark hours of the morning. However, given the content within, I doubt this will be popular in our revelry readings. 

I must warn, now, if only to remind myself, that this record is not exaggerated or falsified. I did not take liberties. It was far too painful an experience to muse over the prose for days at a time. It is written as Holmes, I think, prefers it; intelligent, to the point, and factual. This only makes the horrors within more stark. 

During the winter, Holmes smoked more often. I had told him my uncertainty on the virtues of tobacco, given that breathing smoke was hardly helpful during a fire, but he was never one for metaphor. I will admit that he was indeed delicate at times. I doubted on a number of occasions his ability to return from a case unharmed, and during the colder months, he was prone to sickness and joint pain that I myself suffered from. We were a sorry pair during winter, nursing our sore shoulders while huddled around a fire. 

1891 was a cold year, and so I had to put up with quite a bit more smoke in the apartment than I would have liked. He would often excuse himself from my bed to smoke overlooking the street. I believe that he liked the look of snow more than he would admit, then or now. My Holmes, despite his revulsion to certain emotional clouding, always seemed the romantic when he thought no one could observe. However, he was the sole subject of my deduction, and this conclusion was obvious by this point. 

He would like me to include, after objecting so heavily to his smoking, that in this instance, it managed to save us quite the trouble. Even so, I will express my dislike of the taste of tobacco on his tongue. 

I had only just begun to fall back into sleep when he shouted, a curt call of my last name, a signal that our intimacy was over. I saw him in the next moment hurry past my rooms towards his own in a flash of his patched dressing gown. Without asking, I began to dress hurriedly, putting on the suit I had worn the day before. It was then I noticed that Holmes’ suit was also on the ground of my bedroom. I quickly gathered its pieces as I tried to button my waist coat with one hand and deposited it into the mess of his room. 

He was out only a moment after me, and just in time to hear the ring of our doorbell. 

“Lestrade,” He whispered, smoothing down my still sleep-wild hair. He, of course, looked completely composed, as though he had taken hours to dress. He sat leisurely with his pipe as Lestrade’s footsteps carried up the stairs. 

“Inspector,” Holmes called cheerfully. My initial worries about Lestrade’s knowledge of our relationship were quelled quite easily as it became clear that, for all of his excellent police work, Lestrade was not an observant man. I had seen him offend his wife without knowing on too many occasions to believe he could see through the nuisance of our courtship, which we took care to disguise as brotherly friendship. He offered only a tight smile and nod as he entered the room. 

“Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson,” he greeted, “there’s been a young man found dead in the Whitechapel District.” 

“Is that all?” Holmes replied, a devious smile curling around his pipe. “There’s a new body in Whitechapel every hour. Surely you have something more interesting for me.” 

“There was a green carnation laid over his body.” 

As soon as the words had left the Inspector’s mouth, my blood ran cold. Having been well read on Oscar Wilde, I knew what that meant, and seeing as Wilde was the only fiction author that Holmes bothered to read, I knew that he did too. Our eyes did not meet, no matter how forcefully I longed for it. I tried to conceal my panic and cleared my throat. 

“Right then,” I said, “lead on, Inspector.” 

My first question during the ride to Whitechapel was about the Riper. The killing of young women had plagued Holmes for several years of our companionship. He took special interest in Whitechapel, spending more time there than was appropriate for men of upstanding position. He liked to say that he was simply waiting for the Riper to strike, but I knew that he often spent his nights there escorting young women between buildings, offering pay without asking for services, and buying the especially young ones a hot meal and a bed in a nicer part of town. No matter how much he claimed to be ruled by logic and not emotion, it has always been clear to me that Holmes is, before anything, an altruist. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Holmes scoffed at my question. “All of the Riper’s prey have been women. He would have no reason to change his method and victim now.” I knew that the Riper’s inactivity was beginning to bother him. There was the fear that he moved on from London or simply died. While both of these possibilities ensured the safety of the women of Whitechaple to an extent, it also meant that Holmes would likely never catch him. If there was anything that overrode his want to help and protect, it was his need to win. 

The carriage ride was spent in a curt, clipped conversation between the two of us, trying to conceal the great amount of dread that was building with every street the carriage passed. I felt as though if I had to spend one more moment in that tight box with Lestarade beside me, I might let out a mighty scream of desperation or panic. Holmes’ eyes, cool grey, kept my jaw clamped shut. There was a promise in his eyes, of affection and care as soon we were once again within the safety of our home. I only wished then that I might take his hand in mine to gather only a taste of what I needed so desperately. 

The air seemed to cool in my lungs as we stepped out into Whitechapel. The biting winter cold could seem as a momentary discomfort for those of us in our warm townhouses. In Whitechapel, it leaked into every corner, filled rooms with little fire to ward against it. 

There was a crowd gathered around a small alley way that dipped behind a bathhouse. Men and women unsure whether to whisper or shout at their chosen spectacle. Lestrade made quick work of cutting the crowd, and the whispers and shouts only increased as Holmes was spotted. I was often ignored during our outings with Scotland Yard, and while this had been bothersome to begin with, it allowed me a certain advantage. I could easily blend into the crowd with my rumpled suit, and so I began to observe the way that Holmes had taught me. While he studied the body, I studied the crowd. 

There was, across almost every face, a look of pity, which was perfectly common. Scattered amongst those, there was a twist of morbid curiosity, a wonder about the nature of the death, which I had found was also quite typical. The average man would not be faced with death as often as Holmes and I, and so it was natural to long for a glimpse at the beyond, even in the bodies that no longer held answers. Indeed, there were some faces that were marked with fear, as bold and horrific as my own had sat upon my features. Young men who had heard of carnations, young women dressed in violets. I could not look at them for too long, lest my heart tumble up and out of my lips. 

Most of the spectators were dressed poorly, young men with second hand, ill fitting suits and waistcoats. There were some children, dirt covered feet, hands clutching petticoats, wide eyed and unsurprised. I would wager that these children had seen death before, far more than they should. 

My eyes lifted in barely enough time to see it; a young man, dressed well, in a black overcoat lined with dark blue silk. There sat upon his fair head a top hat, sprinkled with the still falling snow. His features were light, handsome, and sharp. He did not appear to be the kind of person who lived in or frequented Whitechapel, and so I took note of his face and clothing to mention to Holmes upon our return to Baker Street. 

The shrill voice of a man cut across the crowd. As well acquainted in moments of tension I had become, I am not ashamed to say that I jolted at the sound of it. 

“What’s all this for?” The man said, stepping closer to the body, closer to Holmes. I, in turn, began to approach. I was very aware of my partner’s ability to protect himself, however, I did not doubt that support would be greeted with appreciation. Lestrade was quick to follow. 

“This is a murder investigation,” the Inspector said, “go about your business.” 

“For a bugger?” Said he, spitting the word like a curse. “Just toss ‘im in the river.” Lestrade placed a firm hand on the man’s chest and began to push him back. I was only too happy to offer my assistance. 

“One more word, and you’ll be going in for it.” Lestrade replied. Our dear Inspector could be many wonderful things, but perhaps the chief among them was loyal. 

The man stepped back, spat at Lestrade’s shoes, and indeed went about his business, grumbling about the bloody buggers. Upon his dismissal, the rest of the crowd began to disperse, no longer interested in the body now that they knew what the carnation meant. They spat as they left, their saliva gathering up and around the body, but never on it, as Holmes stood a silent guard over his still form. 

“Come, Watson,” he said finally. I could not look away from the cold, blue face of the young man, so much like me. So much like my Holmes. He stepped forward, not touching, but hovering in my line of sight. He urged me back to the carriage. “Inspector, I would move the body quickly. I doubt he will be left in peace for long.” 

We stalked into our coach, Holmes to my side. His long, talented fingers twitched as we sat silently, riding into the quickly darkening streets of London. 


	2. Chapter Two

Within the seclusion of Baker Street, I had expected Holmes to let loose the torrent of anger I knew he was holding within himself. This outrage was a particular talent of his. He could call forth a great surge of emotion as soon as our door was latched, letting out strings of curses and foulness I will not record here. This anger was never turned on me nor a person of any decency. It was reserved for those men that he dedicated himself to hunting with the patience and passion of a hungry fox. 

There was no such surge that late morning. He walked silently from the coach, his long legs carrying him much faster than I, up the stairs to our rooms without a word. I stopped only to great Mrs. Hudson before following, to find him sat in his armchair, his limbs tangled up around him like twisted branches. The pipe was already between his lips, and I could not summon forth the will to complain. 

Instead, I made tea. It is a distinct skill of the British to be able to step around the terror in a room with routine. While my life with Holmes didn’t allow for much of that, tea was perhaps the only ritual that I would carry with me from cradle to grave. As the water heated over our fire, I sat quietly beside him in my own chair, pretending to find interest in a novel that had been tossed carelessly onto the floor from Holmes’ seat. Upon reading the title; A House of Pomegrantes; I set it aside and quelled the churning of my gut to continue the ritual. 

Leaves in water, water through strainer, water in cup, cup served. Two sugars for him, none for me. It was as simple as walking, as bending my fingers into a fist. 

He did not touch his cup as I set it beside him and settled with my own. Instead, he studied the fire with some distant and ferocious focus. 

“Holmes,” said I, breaking the silence that had overtaken us. He stared still, the light dancing in his cold eyes. “Sherlock,” said I. Upon the use of his given name, a word reserved for the most intimate moments, his attention shifted though his eyes did not. He hummed gently in the back of his throat and pawed for his tea, giving it an unenthused sip. “What did you see?” He sighed. It was not a question that he cared to answer at the moment, but it was the only question. 

“Young,” he said, “very young. No more than 20. Well to do, a fine family. A signet ring on the little finger of his left hand said as much. A fighter, if the blood and dents in it are any indication.”

“What business would a man such as he have in Whitechapel?” I asked, knowing the answer. 

“What business would a man such as he have anywhere?” Holmes mused. “If not Whitechapel, then somewhere with more people, who care to spy into the matters of others more. There, he knew that no one would look at the room once the door was closed.” 

“He was to meet a lover?” The word tasted sour in my mouth. Homes nodded, his eyes wearily tracking the dancing flames. 

“I’m afraid so,” said he, “but given the state of his clothing, he never made it.” I bowed my head, feeling for the first time in many years overcome by the tragedy of it all. I had given up melancholy after the war, but it crept into me as I thought about the poor boy who had been left waiting, and what he might have found when he finally stepped out of the bathhouse. My hand, hesitant and frightened, found Holmes’. There they sat, fingers tangled together, as morning stretched into afternoon. 

Very little comfort could be given while the sun still shone, and Holmes had much to attend to. I left him to his notes and research, focusing on the report sent to me by Lestrade from the morgue. It was as gruesome as I had feared, and not a painless death. 

The blow to his temple was the last, the killing one that ruptured his skull in such a way that much of the matter encased therein was missing. He had sustained many injuries before that, blows to the torso, arms, and legs, breaking bones and leaving bruises that caused pain until the last. If my heart had not swelled in its chamber for this young man before, it did then, the pounding of it deserparete in my ears. I abandoned my duties then, inquiring with Mrs. Hudson about food. It seemed the only thing to do.

I had not given up my crusade to feed Holmes whenever humanly possible, so I pulled him from his work to eat. He still held that stoic silence, although I was beginning to believe that it was something more than that keeping him who was so ready to speak, quiet. 

Upon the evening, I did not allow him to stay awake, bent over his notes by candle light. It was always a chore to guide him to bed, but I performed it dutifully every night. I wrapped my arms around his chest, pressed my nose into the nape of his neck, an embrace that I would stiffen at if our doors were not locked and our windows not drawn. He would sigh, act as though he were bothered by the whole thing, but reliably, he would give in and follow. 

The steady rustle of my hair by his breathing remains to this day, the only thing that can lull me to rest even in the most dangerous of storms. 

Our trip to the morgue the following day was inevitable, but dreaded. We both took our time about it, stretching our morning as long as the hours would allow. On any other investigation, Holmes would be out of Baker Street by first light, dragging me along with him. Instead, we waited until mid morning before admitting there was very little else we could do to stall the visit. 

The problems of the dead were not few in London. It was a subject of which I was particularly passionate, given my constant acquaintance with the dead. London’s population was burgeoning from it’s borders and growing still, and when it’s citizens expired, the coveted land not taken by the living was fought over by the dead. The rich were relatively safe within their familial vaults, but those without sufficient pay were often laid to rest in unsavory fashion. Coffins were stacked atop each other in twenty foot holes, the top most mere inches from the surface. Bodies were distrubed and moved frequently for the newly dead. I had heard stories of chopping bodies to fit within the standard grave, heads and feet packed into the spare room between legs and under arms. 

I had made it clear to Holmes that, upon my death, I would be buried far away from London, lest I haunt him from beyond the grave like one of Dickens' specters. 

The smell of a morgue was one I knew well, but never quite grew accustomed to. Death had to it a strangely sweet smell, and it often stuck to Holmes’ clothes and hair. I rather preferred the scent of his favorite perfume, something with rose hips that he would spray upon occasion. Anything to cover the smell of decomposition that left me sleepless. 

The body of the young man was laid out and stripped of his fine suit, displaying the harsh bruises against his translucent skin. Under closer observation, the right side of his head was collapsed, the skin sagging around the displaced bone. His right eye was missing, although I could not be sure whether that was a result of the attack or the morgue. His left eye was green and clouded over, still open. 

Holmes examined him quietly, bent to see the scrapes across his knuckles. 

“Watson,” said he, “his effects,” he waved towards a pile of clothing on a table across the room. I acquiesced and began to unfold his clothing in hopes of identifying the young man. His cost was charcoal and finely made, wool strong enough to keep out the winter cold. It was lined with green silk of the same quality as the figure who had fled the scene of his death. The details of that man came back to me in that moment, and as I turned to tell Holmes, he was already walking towards me. 

“It was his brother.” Said he, gingerly examining the signet ring laid beside his clothing.

“Dear God,” I replied, “you mean to say that it was his brother who did this?” Holmes shook his head minutely. 

“I don’t believe so.” With this statement he returned to the body, observing his head carefully in a way unlike he usual investigation. He gazed upon the boy’s body silently, his long fingers hovering but an inch above his golden hair. 

It was then that I realized; Holmes’ silence was not out of stoicism. It was out of horror, a state I so rarely saw in him that it stirred some great fear in myself. 

“His name is Charles Malcom.” Said he.

“As in…” 

“Yes.” Holmes turned from the boy and sighed. “We will have to pay his father a visit.”


	3. Chapter Three

Ernest Malcolm was a prolific member of the parliament of Great Britain. His influences leaned towards the conservative, against the women's vote, against aid for the poor. I would state my opinion on the matter of his morals, however, I am afraid my answer would be smeared with bias. I have a particular distaste for politicians as a whole. Trade and barter are, of course, natural components to human communication. I simply do not approve of it when the compromise is made at the cost of human life. 

The choices of the members of British Parliament most commonly lined the pockets of its members, thus I was not overcome by shock at the sight of the Malcolm home. There was a shortage of land available for burial, and yet the building spanned an entire city block. We chose to walk, given the short distance between our home and his, and talked quietly and quickly about the body. We came upon the Malcolm home not twenty minutes after we began to walk. I felt for a moment that my shoes were too dirty to walk across the fine stones leading to the front door. 

Holmes’ stature always changed when we visited places such as this. I knew little of his familial history at this point in time, but I now know it to be a discomfort with the nature of his childhood and tension with his parents. His back was almost always twisted into a harsh slouch, a posture earned after years hunched over his reading for hours at a time. As we approached the house, his back straightened. He looked rather unnatural then, as though forced to embody a version of himself that no longer existed. I wished to carve the curve back into his spine. 

We were led through the maze of the house towards Malcolm’s study. It was full of empty rooms, decorated beautifully with expensive furniture, but every inch of it looked untouched, as though no one lived in the house at all. 

Ernest Malcolm was an old man, nearly seventy years old, and thin as a sapling. He rose as we entered to greet us. Holmes’ face was pictured in the newspapers enough for recognition to cross his features. 

“Mr. Holmes,” said he, his voice as sharp and crude as a razor. “And…” he looked towards me. I nodded and replied. 

“Dr. Watson.” 

“Please, gentlemen,” He waved towards the fine armchairs set in front of his oak desk. I let Holmes move first and followed dutifully at his side. 

“Mr. Malcolm,” Holmes greeted, his voice pleasantly blank, “what an honor to meet you,” the flattery did not break Malcolm’s concentration. He stared intently at Holmes, as though trying to peer through him completely. 

“Oh,” he said, “and what care should a young man such as yourself have for men such as me? Young men think nothing of politics. Their heads are too full of poetry.” Holmes smiled a dazzling smile. I could just see his tongue worrying over the gap in his teeth as he thought. This was perhaps, one of my favorite times to observe Holmes. He was vicious in conversation. He spoke like every word belonged in a fencing match. . 

“You were historically young when you first joined Parliament,” Holmes said. “Thirty years ago now, wasn’t it?” 

“1861, yes.” Malcolm replied. “You, Detective, were hardly a babe.” Strike. 

“I am hardly a detective. More of an enthusiast.” Parry. 

“Why then, if you are so enthusiastic,” Malcom said, “do you not join Scotland Yard?” 

“I’m a young man,” Holmes replied, “I care nothing for politics. You did, however, when you were my age. 1861 was quite the exciting year in British law making.” Counterstrike. 

“The beginning of the end, if you ask me.” The twist in Malcolm’s voice felt vile in my ears. 

“Oh?” Holmes replied innocently. “How so?” A baiting move, hoping to draw an attack. 

“Are you fond of sodomites, Mr. Holmes?” Bait taken. Holmes’ face did not slip from his nonchalant mask, but I knew his eyes well enough to see them torn between disgust and excitement. He laughed easily. 

“Ah, I see what you mean.” Said he. “Not at all. I am simply opposed to capital punishment in all forms.” The strike was parried, but only just. 

“Even those killers you so love to capture?” Malcom asked. Another strike. I wished very desperately to split the skin of my knuckles over his teeth. 

“Even them,” Holmes replied, unbothered. “If we kill the killers, we are no better men than they are.” A counter with a flourish of pride. 

“I understand,” Malcolm smiled. “You are too delicate for the procedure.” Perhaps it was the pride before the fall. The accusation hung heavily in the air. Holmes laughed, that same, hollow laugh, as though these were only jests between friends. “And you, Doctor?” He turned his gaze upon me, Holmes tagged out of the match. I would happily take his place. 

“I am a man medicine,” I replied, “it is not within my oath to condone harm on any living thing.” 

“There’s not a man alive who you wish dead?” Malcom asked. I kept my eyes level and answered honestly. 

“Two,” said I. Match set. He surrendered, and did not inquire further. 

“We have not come to speak on politics,” Holmes said. “We have news of your son, Charles.” 

“I have two sons,” Malcolm replied. “George and Percival.” 

“Yesterday you had three.” Holmes had begun to look rather bored with the whole conversation. He was moving it along quickly now. “Or perhaps you miscounted. Either way, Charles is waiting in the St. James Morgue.” 

“And there he shall stay,” the words left Malcolm’s tongue as though he rehearsed them, as though disowning his son was a line he had memorized months ago. “He will not be claimed by this family.” Holmes’ eyes met his for a long, suffering moment. Ernest Malcolm had the same eyes as Charles Malcolm. The same, glassy green gaze stared out at Holmes, unseeing. 

Upon leaving the home of Ernest Malcolm, Holmes began to look pale and off balance. I longed to wrap an arm around his trim waist. Instead I steady him with a hand on his elbow and passed him the cane I carried with me. He smiled and accepted, leaning on it as we walked. We were only a few streets shy of Baker Street when he ducked into an alley very suddenly, emptying his stomach of our breakfast. I moved quickly to try and comfort him, but I hesitated. I could not rub my hand down his back as I wanted to. I could not smooth the hair from his forehead. 

“I’m fine,” He coughed, spitting as he scowled around the putrid taste in his mouth. “I apologize, Watson. I’m afraid our conversation left me quite ill.” 

“I understand,” I said, placing a hand on his shoulder to help him regain his balance. “I feel quite the same. Let’s return home, then, yes?” 

That evening, Holmes was not so gracious to my attempts to pamper. He poured over his work with barely a glance at the food and drink I brought. He smoked his pipe, read from tomes about parliament. 

“What did he mean,” I asked as the sun began to dip below the buildings. I drew the curtains one by one, “when he said that 1861 was the beginning of the end.” Holmes did not look up from his reading as he answered. 

“It was the year they repealed the death penalty for sodomy.” 

My blood still ran cold at the word. Sodom and Gomorrah had been leering over my shoulder since I had first set my eyes upon Sherlock Holmes. I knew, gazing upon him in bent over his cultures that day, that I was a creature of sin if there ever was one. I had given up thoughts of hell along with melancholy after the war, but every time I heard that word, it brought them to the front of my mind. My two responses were unbridled fear and uncontrollable rage. Instead of weeping or screaming or putting my fist through the wall, I instead moved forward to embrace Holmes. 

“Sherlock,” said I, “how can we-“ the sound of our front door pouding open startled me away from him. I shot across the room as quickly as I had come, and tried to appear busy despite my shock. Only a moment later, Lestrade burst into our rooms. 

“Holmes,” he said, “there has been another.”


	4. Chapter Four

The second body was not in Whitechapel. It was, instead, abandoned in the docks 

The sea air did much to clear my senses as we walked across the dock, Lestrade hurrying our leasurly evening pace. We had gone on occasional walks such as this, when Holmes was kept awake deep into the evening by his constant train of manic thought. It hardly bothered me to accompany him, at first employing the excuse of offering protection to the dangerous district. It is embarrassing to admit now that I would use this even when the both of us knew that Holmes required no protection of any kind. For some time after meeting him, my companion had seemed to me very fragile. He ate infrequently and slept even less, and his tall, thin frame made him out to be an unstable structure, ready to fall in the wind. I learned over time, however, that there was strength hidden in his limbs. He was fast, cunning, and deadly in a fight. Although I had my military training and my gun at my disposal, I have not been disillusioned to believe that Sherlock Holmes requires my protection for a very long time. 

What would be a quiet, almost romantic backdrop to our walk was marred with muffled shouts in the distance. News had spread quickly of the young man in Whitechapel, and the fact of his persuasion was of chief importance in these whispers. It was no wonder that a crowd had gathered around a body killed in such a similar manner. 

I was surprised to see, upon arriving at the crime scene, that this was not another well dressed man abandoned in poor conditions. Officer’s of Lestrade’s police were holding back the crowd this time, forming a sort of barricade between the body and the people. Holmes moved like a dog on a scent, immediately stooping over the young man. The body looked, for all the world, to be a dock worker. His hands were calloused and dirty, his boots were hardly made for this sort of weather and I could clearly see where the soles had been repaired time and time again. His clothes were sparse and ill-fitting for the winter. Such a slight lad, he must have been cold. 

And through the lapel of his thin jacket there sat a wilting, green carnation. 

I could not bear to look at him any longer, so I turned my attention to the crowd. It seemed to be mostly folk of the area, dressed in similar fashion to the young man. There were no kindred spirits that I could see this time. No carnation boys, no violet girls. I felt a very strange sense of isolation. Although Holmes was a few meters from me, I felt as though the only creature like me in any way was dead on the dock. 

In my mournful glances around the crowd, I saw a familiar sight. A young man dressed finely, fair hair covered by a top hat. His eyes met mine for a moment, but in that moment, I could see that they were startlingly green. I began to run before I could process the familiarity in those eyes. It would only be later that I would recognize it was the same shade as the eyes of Charles Malcom, as the eyes of Ernest Malcom. 

The young man began to run as I battled through the crowd towards him. His hat tumbled off of his head in his haste, and I nearly trampled it as I gave chase. He did not appear to know the area, although luck seemed to be on his side. The docks were full of dead ends and alleys that cut to the Channel, so it was a wonder that he managed to elude me for as long as he did. His legs were long and he moved quickly, but having been acquainted with Holmes as long as I had, I had developed quite the endurance. 

I came around a corner very fast, to find the young man standing still. He had finally turned down the wrong street and found himself stuck between myself and a tapered dock leading to the icy sea. I began to slow my pace, knowing that if I were to barrel into him, we would both tumble into the sea. He seemed shocked, and his green eyes were wide with fear. 

As I came upon him, my hands clamping down on his shoulders, he jumped from his shock into motion. In retrospect, I can only regard his next actions with the respect of a fighter. During my time at war, although a medic, I had still experienced a fair share of close combat. This only increased in frequency when I joined Holmes. So, I should have been prepared for the way that the young man shifted his weight so he might kick my legs out from under me and shove me the short distance between him and the dock. 

That respect only comes with retrospect, however. During the moment, I was horrified, cold, and angry. 

The water hit me like a sheet of ice, curling through my layers of clothing and biting my skin in vicious strikes. The breath was shocked out of my lungs, and I dragged in one horrible mouthful of brackish, polluted water. I had the instinct to try and push myself up, although my limbs were numb and I had barely any sense to tell floor from surface. There was no light to give it away, and I couldn’t bear to open my eyes against the stinging cold, so I just swam. After a few excruciating moments in which I was certain I was only driving myself deeper into the depths, I broke through the surface. I hacked, spat out water, and I was dragged back down by the force of the current. I hadn’t the strength to wade in the water and try to climb out. In my short second above the water, though, I heard Holmes’ shrill, panicked voice call out; 

“John!” 

I tossed my hand high above my head and felt it break into the chilled air. A moment later, liquid warmth spread across the skin of my palm as Holmes’s hand slotted into mine so perfectly, as though it were the only place it could possibly fit. 

There was strength in Holmes’ limbs, yes, but not nearly enough to drag me, soaking wet, up several meters to the dock alone. I was only lucky that Lestrade was quick to follow and hooked his arm under mine. Together they hauled me up onto the damp wood of the dock

In my few moments of life threatening danger, I could always find solace and joy in the little ways that Holmes reacted to it. Let it not be said that I enjoyed seeing my companion panic, much the opposite. It disturbed me to see a man so usually calm in the face of death and harm melted into a thing of worry and fear. It was perhaps a sick appreciation of the fact that he only acted this way for me. He certainly did and does care for those outside of our relationship, but he approaches their danger with the same cool indifference he carries about him at all times. He explained it to me once, as a form of protection. 

“What good is killing them,” said he, “if everyone believes I haven’t a heart to care?” 

I was not fooled by this pretense, but it was with a certain amount of glee that I noticed that this act could not continue in the case of my own injury. I had noted long ago the way his long hands flapped uselessly as he attempted to cure my ails with his nimble fingers alone. I have recorded his often vicious reactions upon my harm, his threats of murder, of torture, of dismemberment and experimentation and fates far worse than death. It was, perhaps the way that his eyes met mine. They were usually grey, cold, and steely. When they found mine in fear, however, his eyes were wet and his eyes were blue. 

“Watson,” He breathed, dragging me to sit with his assistance. I still had in me a bit of water to cough up, and he was waited patiently for my response as he started to drag my sodden coat off of my shoulders, replacing it with his own. When I finally had breath in me again, I spoke. 

“His eyes,” said I, clutching on to the collar of Holmes’s vest. “Like Malcom’s. They were green.” Confusion passed over his fine features for only a breath before it seemed to click into place in his mind. 

“Come, Watson,” said he, “we shall see you to Baker Street and in front of the fire before the sun has risen. 

True to his word, by the time that daylight broke through the cracks in our curtains, I was stripped, dried, and dressed before being swaddled in every blanket that Holmes could find and set in his chair before the fire. Holmes fluttered about me, adjusting blankets, fetching tea and brandy, pressing the back of his hand to my face to feel for returning warmth. 

“Holmes,” I said after an hour of such behavior, “Sherlock,” I said, since we had finally been left alone by Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. “There is nothing to do but wait for me to warm up. Sit down.” He seemed begrudged to adhere to my request, but he did after a moment. He folded his long fingers together in his lap. “Tell me what you found out about the boy.” 

Holmes’ eyes flicked to mine critically at the word. It had been decided long ago that we refer to bodies as what they were; bodies. My tendency to assign them title in conversations with Holmes was quickly addressed. It was no use to remind ourselves what they once were. The soul that had inhabited them was gone, and so the only thing we could do was bury them and give their families peace. 

Holmes did not correct me then. He continued with caution, his voice level. 

“He was by all indications the same age as Malcom. According to one of the dock workers, he was a ship hand named Fredrick. No surname. There were no rumors that he could be…” 

It was not a common occurrence that Sherlock Holmes shied away from his words. 

“He and Charles Malcom,” said I, “they were…” 

“Given you placed what appears to be one of the remaining Malcom children at both scenes?” Holmes nodded solemnly. 

“Dear God,” I closed my eyes and sunk myself further into the chair. It smelled of him, of his rose hips perfume, of tobacco and decay and warmth. “This could happen to any of us. To all of us.” I bit out a short laugh. “Do you think they’d keep our bodies together? Or would I be dumped upon the Tower and you at Scotland Yard?” 

His short, measured footsteps crossed the small space between us quickly. I opened my eyes to Holmes knelt before of me. His face was twisted imperceptibly, and I worried for a heartbeat that I had offended him with my careless statement. His eyes, still blue, softened, and his warm hand rested upon my cheek. 

“My dearest John,” said he, “I should sooner cast myself into the pits of hell than allow you, whether in life or death, to be treated in such a manner.” The severity in his voice ran a shiver up my spine that I would blame on the cold. He drew closer, and his lips brushed against mine in a chaste kiss. 

Let it be said that little of what Holmes and I did at that point was chaste. This kiss, however, was not intended to bring heat out of me. It was not meant to rile me up or pull his name from my lips as his clever kisses so easily did. This was comfort, meant only to reassure me that he was there through my cold and my despair. I had to believe that he would always be there. The way his eyes held mine would not allow a different conclusion. 

“I believe,” Holmes said, breaking our comfortable silence. “That we must pay Malcolm and his sons another visit.” I nodded, and although the thought of that large, empty house formed a pit in my stomach, I pushed the thoughts away. “You should sleep first,” Holmes said after a moment. My eyes flashed to his. 

“Ah, but I am still cold,” said I, “I will require you to keep me warm.”


	5. Chapter Five

Holmes and I slept through the morning in a quiet haze. I could feel him stir every once in a while, unable to stay calm and still when his mind had such a case to entertain. Even so, every time that I believed he would rise from bed and leave me to keep myself warm, he stayed, curling tighter around me. I had asked him directly, and so he would stay. By the time that I roused completely and was coaxed into dressing by Holmes, it was afternoon. Although I had been known to sleep late into the morning, I hadn’t laid in this late since my first days home from Afghanistan, which I spent tangled in bedsheets without rising for drink or food. 

It was clear that, though he had only risen when I did, Holmes’ mind had been awake far earlier than mine. His sharp features always had about them a sense of contemplation, a constant attempt to categorize his surroundings completely. At times like this, though, when he had an interesting problem to toy with, there was an intensity in his eyes, once again grey. 

“Alright,” said I, setting into my armchair across from his after my late lunch. “How will we proceed this evening?” 

“This is a matter I was hoping for your expertise in.” Holmes mused, spinning his pipe in his fingers although it was not lit. I nodded and indicated for him to continue. “The Malcolm estate is heavily staffed. I doubt that they’ll simply let us in without announcing it.”

“You intend to trespass?” I asked. 

“Would that trouble you?” He looked at me with a certain amount of concern. I smiled warmly. 

“My dear, you forget that we have trespassed upon the most sacred places in England. Why, I’ve watched you pick locks to churches and cathedrals along with palaces and mansions. No, it does not trouble me.” He looked ever so slightly relieved. In Holmes’ work, the law was often broken. Even after all of these years, whenever criminal activity came into play, he would always allow me a manner of escape from the conversation, an amount of deniability. I had landed in a holding cell with Holmes before. I would gladly do it again. Even so, my heart warmed at his care. 

“Then yes, Watson, I intend to trespass. I’ll need your help with this, along with, perhaps Lestrade, although I would prefer not to involve him.” He took another moment to collect his wandering thoughts. 

“Out with it,” said I, “tell me what to do.” 

__

As it turned out, Lestrade was indeed needed for this endeavor, much to Holmes’ displeasure. While Sherlock Holmes was indeed a man of justice, he was not by any means a man of the law. If he could have conducted his work without ever speaking to another police officer, he would happily take the chance. The knowledge that the men he so often had to rely upon in his investigations would just as soon throw him into the jailhouse for his queerness was something that weighed heavily on Holmes, and he regarded most of the law men we worked with with a healthy amount of caution. 

Lestrade had seemed to earn a certain amount of respect, although Holmes would often rant and rave about his lack of mental capacity. After all of the years that Lestrade had accompanied us on our adventures, it was hard to believe that he hadn’t absorbed any of Holmes’ methods. Even so, he seemed hopelessly lost and set in the Scotland Yard ways. 

His badge, however, was far more capable than he. 

When we called upon the Malcolm estate late that evening, the butler answered our ring and was met by that very badge. Before he could call out for assistance, Lestrade was quietly instructing him to gather the servants below and to leave the house out of the kitchen door, where they would be collected and questioned by Scotland Yard officers. The poor man’s face was a mixture of pale white and sickly green, as though his body couldn’t decide whether to vomit or faint away. 

From there, Holmes, Lestrade, and I proceeded into the empty manor, making our way through the untouched rooms towards the study. I could see the slightest shake in Holmes’ hand. When we came upon the staircase leading up to the residential wing of the house, our party split. With one last glance at Holmes, I made my way up the large staircase. The rooms were large and spread apart. Most of the family had retired for the evening already, and I checked every room for its inhibitance before locking it with the keys given to me by the butler. I was almost done with this task when interrupted. 

The clattering of a candle holder hitting the ground startled me from my slow approach to the second to last door. I spun around, my hand flying to the revolver in my pocket. There stood behind me the frightened face of the young man who had thrown me in the river, of Charles Malcolm’s brother. Those emerald eyes shone in the wavering candle light. He bent quickly to gather it before the flame could scorch the carpet, and by the time that he was righted again, the muzzle of my gun was pointed squarely at his chest. I jerked my head once towards the last room. A question. Yours? He nodded curtly once, and began to move slowly towards it. I followed, never lowering my hand, never losing my clear shot. 

When the door was closed behind me, the young man seemed to let out a huff of relief. 

“Please, sir,” said he, “I offer no resistance. I am no danger to you. There is no need for that.” My hand did not shake or waver. 

“Your name, please sir,” said I. 

“Percival Malcolm. I was-“ something complicated cut across his fair features. “I must apologize, my good sir, for my actions last night. I hadn’t intended to throw you into the river, it just-“

“Why were you at both crime scenes?” I interrupted. He looked confused for a moment before answering. 

“Charles is-“ his face screwed up painfully “- was my brother. I had to see him. I had to see what I had brought upon him.” 

“And the other?” 

“Oh, Freddy, dear Freddy,” he pressed his face into his hands with a heave of great shame. It was clear to me that this boy was in the midst of grief, and that there had not been a soul for him to tell. I placed my revolver back into my pocket, and stepped back ever so slightly. 

“My boy,” said I, “tell me what has happened. Quickly, we haven’t much time.” He took only a moment to collect the breath he would need to speak. 

“My brother, Charles.” His voice shook with fear and grief. “We were very close, you see, since we were children. I am only a year older than he, so it was only natural that we would confide in each other. I had known his love of men since we were very young. It was not until our adolescence that we discovered it’s strangeness. From that time, I had been sworn to secrecy, and I had kept that secret very well. When Charles and Freddy met, it was love, the kind of pure love that could not be a sin. I was the only one to know, the only one to meet him. I held the same brotherly love for Freddy as I did Charles, you see, and so I had to see them, I had to see what I had done.” 

“What did you do?” I asked slowly, gently. 

“I told him,” he stepped back to sit upon his bed, his eyes haunted. “My father. I was… he knew, of course he did, but he needed proof. And I had it. And so he… he threatened to remove me from the will. To throw me from the house. I thought, surely, Charles would be disowned, but I could feed him money and he could live with Freddy as he wished to. I thought that perhaps it was for the best that Father knew…” 

“You didn’t think he’d kill him.” 

“He didn’t,” Percival shook his head slowly back and forth, his eyes still wide and filled with horror. “George did. Upon his order, of course but…” 

“Well,” said I, “the Inspector will be interested in your testimony.” Percival looked up at me in surprise. 

“Inspector? Will I be punished for keeping Charles’ secret?” 

“You are far more likely to be punished for aiding in murder.” I replied. Perhaps I was too harsh on the boy. He looked to be suffering already, the ghosts of his brother and the man he loved tormenting him from beyond the grave. However, the persisting instinct to protect himself over one so vulnerable made my stomach turn. How many men like Percival did I know? How many men that I called brother would gladly turn their backs on me to save themselves? 

I led Percival down to the servant’s exit and put him in the hands of an officer. Lestrade wasn’t far off, taking the testimony of the head maid. I caught his elbow in my hand and led him away. 

“It was the brother, George,” I said softly. 

“Good God,” Lestrade breathed. 

“Where is Holmes? He will want to speak to the brothers.” I asked. Lestrade looked at me strangely, and my heart seemed to quicken in my chest. 

“He wasn’t with you?” 

There came upon me a numb, quiet panic that rippled through my limbs. I did not answer him, merely turned on my heel and made my way back into the mansion. My feet were light and my revolver steady in my hand as I moved through the servant's entrances and towards the study that Holmes had disappeared into many minutes before. 

The door was cracked open, and I could see a sliver of the study, lit only by the moon. And there, standing tall against the light was Holmes. He was unharmed, but his posture was tense and rippling, ready to pounce at any moment. I would have raced into the room the instant I saw him had his grey eyes not cut across the darkness and landed on mine for only a moment. 

A moment was long enough for Sherlock Holmes to communicate many things. His eyes were clear, and in them was that feral instinct that washed over him in moments of chase. And in his eyes was caution, an urge for me to stay back. I did not know at the time, but there was very little to implicate Malcolm himself in his son’s murder. Holmes’s plan was foolish if not effective, like many of his plans are. He was a reputable witness, and should Malcolm strike out against him when confronted with his son’s murder, then he would admit guilt through his actions. 

This plan was almost as clever as it was idiotic. Holmes would make a good witness, yes, but only if he survived to see the court. 

In that moment, though, I obeyed his silent order, as I almost always did. I crouched low by the door, my revolver steady, and listened. Malcolm was speaking with great anger

“-should the court even find his death suspicious, they will hardly believe the murder of a man such as he to be a loss on society.” 

“The law was created to protect even men like him. He may have been a criminal in his own right, but to kill any man, even a killer himself, is a crime.” Holmes spoke low and steady. He was not muddled by anger like Malcolm was. He was focused, the emotion that would surely choke out his voice in any other moment tucked away somewhere. I could not understand this, how he was able to remove his heart so totally from his mind in the times where it should be the most difficult. That was not one of my gifts, but one of his many. 

“And should I listen to you?” Malcolm spit. “A bugger in your own right? What man of moral standing fights for those so lowly?” 

“What man of moral standing could kill his own child?” There, the slightest hint in his voice. His heart showed through, even as he scrambled to hide it away again. Malcolm took his chance. There was in his hand a thin, sturdy walking cane not unlike my own. He hefted it up, but underestimated Holme’s height. The strike that was surely meant to connect with his temple crushed instead into his shoulder. Holmes did not fall, nearly stumbled to the side and began to circle his opponent. Part of me wished to be comforted by this. Surely this stance was meant for protection. Surely this meant he would guard himself. I would not recognize until later the complacency in Holmes’ muscles. He was determined, he would later tell me, to create the image of a brutal attack. There was no room to explain away defensive wounds, to describe to the court why he, a healthy young man, would strike out at an old gentleman of the Parlement. Damn his stubborn mind, Holmes would not risk the conclusion of his case for something as simple as his health. 

Malcolm had his cane raised again, and must have mistaken Holmes’ hesitance for cowardice. 

“On your knees,” he said, spittle slipping through his teeth as he growled. Holmes kept his head high, meeting Malcom’s gaze with defiance. 

“What did you hope I would bring to this?” He asked. “Quiet obedience? No. You have chosen the wrong victim for that.” 

“You foolish man.” Perhaps there was a moment of desperation or fear that cut across Malcolm’s face, for I saw the hint of a smile creep into Holmes’ features. 

The cane swung clearly down upon Holmes’ head, crashed into his temple with a sickening crunch. Before I could move from my position, he was on the ground of the parlor, his crimson blood beginning to pool in the dip of his eye. 

If this story were to ever see publication, I would not dream of interrupting such a dire moment with muses upon my lover’s beauty. Since this will only be read by the two of us, however, I will relish the opportunity to write in graceful prose his elegance, since my spoken words always seem to lack the smooth cadence of my written. 

Sherlock Holmes was and is not only beautiful. There belongs in that sentence a much stronger word. Sherlock Holmes was and is also sublime. I have read the writings of Edmund Berk, and over time observing the ways of my Holmes, I have come to subscribe to his philosophy full heartedly. Beauty is a word for soft, mild, and fair creatures. Sublime is a word for the kind of beautiful things that terrify. Think not of spring flowers or the wave of skirts in the wind. Think of the ocean. Indeed, it is a thing of comfort and coolness and salty reprieve from sickness and wound. Indeed, it is also the wicked churning that overturns ships and eats men whole. I have known many women to be beautiful, and only one to be sublime. I have known many men to be symmetrical, to be strong, and aesthetically pleasing. I have known very few to be beautiful. I know only one to be all at once. 

Holmes’s beauty often struck me in the early hours of the morning, when his harsh features are softened by early sun. His sublimeness always comes to me in moments like this. My Holmes has the distinct talent of being sublime in ugly and terrible times. Drenched in blood, his blue eyes are sharp and cold. When covered in dirt and twisted with pain, his skin always appears to be porcelain, and able to cut like any broken glass. When bent out of shape, his hooked nose frames his face in such a startling fashion it feels an impossible feat to look away. 

You will understand, then, my Holmes, that I was so enraptured by your sublimness that I was struck dumb for no more than a moment. 

The moment passed, as I moved, rushed into the room with my gun raised. I would not squander Holmes’ sacrifice by killing the man before me, no matter how I longed to. As soon as he heard the cock of my revolver, Malcolm blanched and dropped his cane, cowering back away from me. An instant later, Lestrade was bursting into the room with his men, overcoming old Malcolm and placing him in chains. 

In a breath, my gun was away and I was knelt at my Sherlock’s side. He was bleeding heavily from a deep cut on his temple, and there was no way for me to know in that dark study if his skull had fractured. His eyes lolled in the back of his head, lost somewhere in the space between unconsciousness and wake. By Lestrade’s good graces and the fact that he had thought to bring an extra carriage, myself and my patient were exhumed to Baker Street post haste, his blood staining the floors in that empty house.


	6. Chapter Six

Instead of accompanying Malcolm and his sons to the police station, Lestrade traveled with me to assist in Holmes’ care however he might. After placing him in his bed and examining his wound carefully under the light, I was able to determine that it was far less devastating than I had feared. No fractures, no great swelling of the brain. His brow was scrunched in pain and I was sure he would bloom purple across his face come morning, but nothing that would threaten to take him away from me. 

Perhaps it was the way in which I sagged with relief that spurred Lestrade from his position by the door. He fiddled with his hat, casting his eyes on the two of us, Holmes prone on his bed, I bent carefully over him, tending to him with gentle touch. He looked as though he were struggling to say something rather important as I dabbed away the blood from his skin with the warm water that Mrs. Hudson had brought up. Finally, twisting his cap in his hands, he spoke. 

“I do not claim to understand your strangeness, Doctor,” he spoke in a great pile of words all tumbling together, “but I do know…” he seemed to grapple with his next phrase for a moment as I stopped my work to meet his eye. “I do know that you are a good man. I have a duty to my law but… I believe I have a higher duty to good men such as you. Such as Holmes.” 

“I have no idea what you are implying, Inspector,” I said, guarding myself and Holmes carefully, “but if I did, I should say that I was rather grateful for your moral standings.”

__

Holmes did not wake until the early afternoon, by which time I had managed to stitch the cut on his head and shoo away Mrs. Hudson from worrying over him. I couldn’t do that when she was in the room, so once she left, I took up her noble post. I was brushing back the long, delicate curls of his hair when his eyes cracked open, bluer than the ocean. He observed me for a moment, and must have read the quiet anger off of my features, for he immediately closed his eyes again. 

“I do not appreciate,” said I, “when you decide to throw yourself into danger without consulting me. You know this.” I tried very hard to keep my tone light and soothing, although it was difficult when looking down at the man I loved, injured of his own accord. 

“Watson-“ he began, his voice the same as it always was in these moments; tired, vulnerable, apologetic. Perhaps even sheepish, if Sherlock Holmes were capable of such a thing. 

“We’re alone,” I huffed. “For God’s sake, Sherlock, if you do not begin to take your own health into account, then I fear you will not return from one of your impossible cases.” It was a thought that often haunted me, a dream I had night after night. My Holmes, made into one of the pale and bloated bodies that we observed. He winced, not in pain but perhaps in pity or guilt. 

“John,” he corrected, “I apologize, I had to-“ 

“Had to?” I restrained myself from shouting, but only just. “You have never had to do anything, Sherlock, you have never allowed yourself to be told what to do, so please, do not insult me by pretending that this was anything besides your own choice.” 

He was quiet for a long moment, laid prone in his bed. I sighed, my frustration leaking out of me very slowly. 

“I couldn’t allow him to remain a free man.” Sherlock said eventually. My eyes cut to him as he took my hand in his own. “The thought that there are fathers who are willing and able to murder their children over the simple fact of who they love… it is impossible for me fathom.” He closed his eyes, and a tear slipped down his face. “I could not help but imagine myself as Charles Malcolm. To know in my final moments that those I was to love most betrayed me… and even worse, I couldn’t help but imagine you dead alongside me.” 

I took in a deep breath, let it fill my lungs and replace that frustration with admiration and love for the man in front of me. I reached forward and captured his wayward tear along the pad of my thumb. 

“Then you will be glad to know,” said I, “that I would never allow such harm to befall you.” I said it as though I could guarantee this outcome, as though the world were not an incredibly cruel place for men such as us. Holmes smiled, a crooked, delicate thing. 

“You, my dear doctor, would defy God and His law for me?” He laughed a soft, musical laugh. I responded with my own. 

“I would defy anything for you,” I insisted. I bent the short distance between us and kissed him deeply, allowing all of my fear and anger and hatred to fall away in that moment. When finally our lips parted, I rested my forehead against his. “Besides, what else have we been doing these few years besides defying God?” 

That musical laugh lulled me away from the danger of the night before and into the safety and warmth of the new morning. 

__

In the end, Ernest Malcolm walked free. Despite Holmes’ testimony, it was determined that he lacked the mental capacity to orchestrate such a crime. The court decided that the brothers had carried out this plot alone.

The cut across Holmes’ head, however, did not come for nothing. By positing a question to his capacity, the defense made him vulnerable to political attack. If it wasn’t bad enough that his son was a bugger, he himself was a fool. There passed barely a month before he was forced to resign his seat in Parliament. 

Holmes healed nicely, leaving only a fair scar just below his hairline. His curls would bounce and cover it most of the time, but as with most of his scars, he didn’t care to hide it away as a thing of shame. He was proud of that scar in particular. It was the one that had brought low the man who, in his opinion, was the most wretched of all. It was a scar of victory, and a scar of revenge for Charles, for Fredrick, for himself, for every carnation man and violet lady who walked the streets of London in fear. One less monster hid in the dark, hungry for their blood. 

We carried on, as we always did. Holmes and Watson, men as close as brothers, who rooted out the seedy underbelly of our city. And, when no one was looking, men closer than anyone could imagine, delicate only to one another.


End file.
